


breathe.

by Irrwisch



Series: modern au cullistair [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Desire Demon - Freeform, Inner Dialogue, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:38:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrwisch/pseuds/Irrwisch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twisting, swirling, gripping, pushing, and falling.</p>
<p>It was always the same; and he was never prepared for it. It came at the worst time – anytime – and he didn’t know how to deal with it all. It was his choice after all; he should be able to deal with it. So why wasn’t he? It was so hard some days; and other days it seemed there was nothing easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to warn for minor trigger warnings. They shouldn't be big (or maybe there aren't any), but just in case. Also mention of someone being dead/dying, but no descriptions. Inner Dialouge. And: thoughts are fast, really fast.

Twisting, swirling, gripping, pushing, and falling.

It was always the same; and he was never prepared for it. It came at the worst time – anytime – and he didn’t know how to deal with it all. It was his choice after all; he should be able to deal with it. So why wasn’t he? It was so hard some days; and other days it seemed there was nothing easier.

 

_Breathing started to hurt._

 

What should he do? Now he just sat in the corner, wiping; hoping it would ebb away soon. It wasn’t pain; the pain had vanished a long time ago. It was everything else now. He preferred the physical pain. He knew how to deal with _that_. But he wasn’t sure how to handle his emotions. It was so hard not being able to be inside his own head. It hurt, it _hurt so much_.

Everything he had locked away; neatly organised somewhere where no one would _ever_ look... and now it was all here again, worse than before; always worse. He wanted to scream, but there was no air for it left. He wanted to beg them to stop, but there was nobody who would _hear_.

 

_He couldn’t find his breath._

 

It would go away. It always did. The only question was how long it would take this time. Would it take an hour now? Five days? At the beginning, it took him out for weeks at a time and he never wanted to go back _there_ again. But, then, it would be so easy making it all go away. It wouldn’t hurt. The pain would stop; he could breathe again. He could be _better_ , just a little while. But he’s come so far, they said. Did he really? Did he really come so far from where he had been? He had been fine. He could still die early. He could still lose all the memories he had. Was it worth it? Enduring this pain, just to die like any other? He started to move.

_You’d come so far._

 

He fell forward on the floor and cringed. It hurt. He wanted it to stop. He wanted it to stop _now_. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t, so he kept lying on the floor, praying silently. He wished someone would come and take this pain away; roll it into a little ball so he could kick it out the window. But nobody was coming. Nobody could roll that into any sort of ball and he could never kick it out of the window. He closed his eyes and tried not to weep.

 

_You can do this._

 

When he opened his eyes again, he wanted to scream, if he had any air left. On the wall in front of him, a wonderful sturdy brick wall, there was blood. It wasn’t dried, it wasn’t simply paint meant to scare. No.

It was blood, real blood and he knew him. He _had_ known him. Staying awake was hard, _so hard_ , but if he closed his eyes – _Maker no not again they don’t like it when you look away_ – they’d force him to see. One other had lost his eyelids because he didn’t want to see his brother die. It was silent now. He didn’t like it silent. It meant there was nobody else.

_Tell us_ , they’d say, _tell us and you can go. We promise. We hold word, pretty boy, don’t we? Tell us and you can go._

He wasn’t saying anything. It was all he could do now; holding out. Someone _must_ be coming. They never arrived, signal was lost. Someone _must_ know, and if he was giving up, then everything had been for naught. All his comrades, all his friends would have died in vain.

The blood was dripping from the wall, red and heavy and dead and slick and alive. Their screams were still in his ear, as loud as ever and he would never be able to forget them. He remembered them looking to him, pleading in their eyes. He could make it stop, and he never did, for any of them. It wouldn’t be fair doing it for himself now.

He heard steps and then feet appeared in front of his face. They would always keep him immobilised so he always had to see it all. They gave him something every hour and he didn’t know what it was, nor did he want to. At first, he had tried to resist, but resisting always meant pain where there needn’t be any. And they would win in the end anyway, so why keep up a struggle he couldn’t win? But now, now no one was left but him. He could’ve saved them, saved them all, but he didn’t. He had forsaken them, and all of them had judged him in their last moments. He hadn’t known half of them, so he could never apologise to their families. When they learned he made it – _if he made it oh Mia I should have listened to you I’m sorry forgive me please I want to come home_ – they’d judge him too. There was a hand in his hair and it yanked him upwards. He didn’t struggle; he just wanted them to stop. Some of his bones were broken, he knew, he heard it, but he couldn’t feel them anymore. Simply broken bones were the nicest injuries he had seen being done.

He must stay strong.

But he was all alone now, and he was scared. Was he? He wasn’t sure anymore. Feelings had left him so long ago, he didn’t even know if he had any to begin with. Empty, it was all empty. _Tell us a story, Cullen_ , they say and they’re so loud and so sweet, telling him about sunshine, lakes, girls and butterflies. They made him remember the pond, his siblings and by remembering he dragged them down here too, where they didn’t belong and where they shouldn’t be. If he ever got out, if he ever saw them again, how _could he ever look at them again_? He tainted them, their sweet memory, made his hell theirs too and they never did anything wrong in their lives but knowing him, just knowing him dragged them here and he could never see them again like he needed too, not bright and beautiful anymore but dark, and filthy and forgotten and full of blood.

_Why not tell us about Mia again? How she made flower crowns for you and your sister and your brother?_

He talked in his sleep and they had heard and had used it. They never got what they wanted, but they got more. His siblings; his family. He could endure seeing his comrades die, see them suffer, but he had to keep his family safe. They’d find them, they looked for them and they’d bring them here, start with Rosie because she was small, fragile and wonderful _he couldn’t let them hurt his little sister_ and he was afraid. He was afraid they’d be here any moment, that they’d open the door and they’d be dragged in and they’d look at him, judging and _he would see them suffer he’d see them die_ and he couldn’t save them, he hadn’t forsaken his comrades, he couldn’t give in and it clenched his heart and he couldn’t breathe anymore.

_A nice flower crown, girlish, but pretty so pretty and Mia had made them and Rosie was so happy, they were the Rutherford Gang and everyone see it because they were kings and queens and everyone could see._

Rosalie would come in here, still wearing her crown, the greatest queen of them all and her scraped knees and big eyes with tears in them, drying cheeks because she was afraid and _big brother, please, don’t let them do that, Cully please it hurts save me cully please it hurts it hurts it hurts_ and he couldn’t do anything and he’d see how she screamed and the flowers would fall, around her when she was no longer moving her blood on the wall redder and deeper than anybody else and Bran and Mia’d hate him because they were right how could he his darling little sister and he’d want to scream and couldn’t because he had no air left because his lungs were tight and he would only see the fallen flowers happier times written in blood because of him, always him.

 

_They can’t hurt you again._

He always lay on his side. He wasn’t really sure why. They never moved him, and he never moved, too. He was always faced to the wall dried with blood. It was dried now. How much time had passed? He didn’t know. It could be days, but it could be months as well. When did they last feed him? He couldn’t quite remember. Had anyone else been here for that? Had it been one last meal together? He couldn’t remember. At days, it was difficult to remember his own name. They’d say it, and then he knew again, until it faded again. It mattered little, at any rate.

Her words were small and loving and tender. She never screamed, never shrieked never did anything bad. But she talked and she knew and then she talked again until she knew it all. It was worse than him, because she was inside and bodies were easily ignored but she was _inside_ and she hurt more because he couldn’t ignore inside and that’s where she was, whispering, loving, careful, quietly. She took hearts and clutched them, ate them and left you burning, wanting, craving because she threw it away. He just hurt you, broke your bones and whipped you. He was loud and you could see him, hear him and his pain was welcome. She would never leave, deep inside, sitting there, chanting quietly, tell you lies about a nice life she had and never had so you would share truths she could feast upon. She’d take it all, twist it into madness and tell you again and you cried because every nice thing in this world was gone and lost and it’s your fault because you gave it to her because you wanted to believe her.

_Mia, Branson, Rosalie. Siblings. We all wear flower crowns._

More he never gave her and she took it anyway, twisted it and wanted him to tell more because Cullen you started why not tell me it all? Tell me more about your siblings, so when I meet them I know them and we can all wear flower crowns together.

He hadn’t he never had. He wasn’t sleeping anymore; he fainted after a while so he wouldn’t talk. She was upset, but her voice was still sweet, still wonderful and still quiet, but he heard it, her annoyance and it was victory. _A war is won by inches_ and he was closer now. He lost them all but he could still win the war.

_They were dancing, laughing under the moon. Rosalie was allowed to go the first time this year and she wanted to dance with Cullen and he danced with her and he liked it. I love you Cully she said and he loved her too, pick her up and twirl her around like he’d always done and she would laugh as she always has. She gave him a band she made with Mia she made it so he could take it with him and keep her close so he would always remember. It was plain and he valued it so much because it meant so much and he would always keep it safe she made him promise and he kissed her and she laughed and it was wonderful._

_They were dancing, all together under the moon. They held hands and swirled around, laughing without a care in the world. The flowers withered away but they were wearing them, kings and queens under the moon for everyone to see and everyone swirled with them laughed and they were all holding hands and he could breathe and he grabbed their hands so tight they started crying._

_He could breathe and he was alive._

 

He was alive.

 

He was alive.

 

_He was alive._

 

_Hold my hand if you can’t breathe._

 

When he opened his eyes again, there was no blood on the wall. Someone held his hand and was sitting next to him. Cullen turned his head – it was easier now – and he looked up. Sitting there was Alistair, holding his hand, smiling slightly. Alistair touched him nowhere else because he didn’t want to scare him and Cullen smiled a little too. He was battered and tired and alive and _he won the war he’d won it again and again and again_.

He tried sitting up and Alistair helped him and held him tight when Cullen crawled onto his lap. Alistair was warm and soft and dry and wonderful. “Hold my hand”, Cullen said and Alistair did, holding it close to him. Cullen burrowed his face in Alistair’s neck and closed his eyes, simply being here.

“Tony insisted I bring cheese back with me. I convinced him to bring the sweets you like, too” Alistair said, grinning and Cullen laughed and held Alistair tight and then he cried because he was alive and because he could breathe and because he’d won again.


End file.
